


the first rule of fight club

by impossibletruths



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 1 (Critical Role), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Fights, Friendship, Gen, Sparring, Strange Ways To Make Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 16:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14957877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: It’s been a while since she’s had a proper fight, and Kash seems as willing a sparring partner as any. Friendship really does spring from the oddest of places.





	the first rule of fight club

**Author's Note:**

> written for day one of critical role relationship week 2018

It’s not often she makes it down to the training grounds. Not because she has no interest––more than anything she’d enjoy a fight, a spar, something to bleed off this endless tension––but rather she has no time. Between Cassandra, the temple, the research, and the constant low-gut fear that something is going to happen to her family while she is miles and miles away––

She’s just been a little busy is all.

But the stonemasons have done as much as they can for the day, and Allura has roped Cassandra into a late afternoon’s tea while they pour over everything they have learned of the strange orb beneath the city, and Pike Trickfoot, free at last, is looking for a fight.

It’s late by the time she reaches the guard compound. One half of the gate has been left open, and the dusty yard beyond is empty, straw dummies hanging at loose attention, ready for the next combatant who will try their might against wood and cloth. The sun lurks low on the jagged horizon line of the mountains, throwing long rays of orange light across the compound, and the shadows twist serpentine among the dirt.

Pike, standing in the middle, stares out at the utterly abandoned yard with her hands on her hips and says, “Shit.”

They’ve all turned in for the day, or gone home, or gone out drinking maybe. It was a long shot, but still she’d hoped––

Ah, well. Timing has never been her strong suit.

She is halfway decided to try the tavern instead, in hopes that a drink––even a lonely one––might settle her nerves. She’s come this far after all; there’s little point in walking all the way back to the caslte without something to show for it, even if only a nice buzz. But the clatter of a closing door breaks off her train of thought, and she turns to see Kashaw stepping out of the latrine, discreetly fixing his tunic.

He stops short when he sees her standing in the middle of the yard.

“Um,” she says, uncertain. She has met Kash before certainly, but he’s a hard man to get to know, and what she does know of him could fill a thimble. Mostly it involves Keyleth, and late nights of handwringing on the druid’s part and Vex’s increasingly outrageous advice and Pike’s own quiet amusement. Girl talk. “Hello.”

“Uh,” he offers in return. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, you know,” she says with the edge of a laugh. “Just looking for a little practice.”

He starts moving again, striding across the yard towards the golden shield and spear she only now notices propped against the wall. “Go for it,” he calls over his shoulder, and it takes Pike a moment to find her voice.

“Actually,” she says, making up her mind, “I was hoping to find someone to spar with. Where is everyone?”

“Drinking,” Kash replies. Then, “You want to  _fight_?”

“Yeah,” she says, and he turns back to her. She can’t quite make out his expression against the glare of the sun, but she thinks he might be a little incredulous.

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” she replies. It’s something of a hike down the mountain into town; she hasn’t just made it for her own amusement. She doesn’t think he truly misunderstands, but she can’t resist adding, “Haven’t you ever sparred before?”

“What? No–– I mean, yes, of course I have.” He stares a her, then carefully sets down his spear. “Are you  _asking_  me to fight?”

“Would you like to?” Pike asks. He’s a bit bigger than Vax but not so tall as Grog. In fairness, nobody is as tall as Grog, so she doesn’t hold that against him.

He stares at her for a long, long minute, long enough that she thinks maybe this is pushing too far, but––

“You’re really just like them,” he says with a sigh that sets a flare of pride blooming in her chest. “Okay, sure.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He hefts his shield and spear and rolls out his neck. “I’m bored of running drills anyway.”

“Great,” she says brightly. Then, “Um, do you have...?”

“Weapons are in the shed,” he says, waving his spear in the direction. She finds a mace, not quite the same as her own but with a good heft, and one of the wooden shields neatly fits her arm. She runs through a quick warm up, settling back into the familiarity of the footwork and the strain of effort, and it feels  _good_.

“Magic?” asks Kash, leaning on his spear, watching her. He’s slipped on a padded jacket, and found one in her size too. Thoughtful of him.

“Nah,” says Pike. “I want to hit stuff.”

He snorts at that. “Alright then.”

Armored, armed, and with her heart thrumming in her chest, Pike takes up her position across from him. “To blood?”

“Yield,” Kash decides, and there is something close to excitement in the twist of his lips and the glint in his eye. “We’re clerics. It’ll be fine.”

He’s not wrong.

“To yield,” she agrees, and shifts her grip on her shield. “Ready.”

“Ready.”

The evening’s light cuts through the yard at a sharp angle, and the world is sharp with it, the golden gleam of his spear and the glow of the white stone walls stained orange. She moves in a steady crescent, matching him as they circle, and when the sun is fully to her back she lunges.

The glare in his eyes slows him long enough that she can slip beneath the reach of his spear, and he only barely gets his shield up in time, stumbling back as she drives forward again and again. His spear is useless as she presses in close, and he is the first to falter––she drives her mace down on his foot and he swears before finally getting his shield up enough to force her back with a quick jab to the face. They eye each for other a moment, him favoring his good foot.

“You fight dirty, Trickfoot,” he says, panting. Pike grins, lip bloody.

“Yeah,” she agrees, and he grins in return.

He goes on the offensive then, spear dancing out in front of him, and somehow it slips past her shield, scoring a shallow cut across one arm. She pays him back a moment later when she manages to loop around him and elbow him in the knee hard enough that he goes down, and catches him on the shoulder as he rolls away, spear left in the dust. He switches his shield to the other hand and beckons her forward. She charges.

Despite the difference in height he manages to catch her shield in a lock, and his other hand locks around her wrist, twisting enough that she is forced to let the mace drop. She digs her nails into the soft flesh of his wrist and he yelps, driving his shield forward so that she must give ground or be forced to the dirt. His foot kicks out; she only just avoids having her feet swept out from under her and kicks him in the shins in return. He hits her in the face with her own shield.

“Fuck,” she growls, breaking away as her vision blurs a moment. Kash grins.

“You started it,” he says, as though they are six and rolling around in the street, and it is a tragedy that they have not done this before.

She regains her bearings, shifting her shield a little and charging back toward him. Just as she reaches him she goes to her knees, skidding under his shield to tackle him. They both go down in a cloud of dust and uncoordinated blows, and she eventually ends up on top, driving an elbow into his solar plexus. He wheezes, gasping for breath, and returns with a wild swing towards her; he wrenches her shoulder with enough force to send them over again, and he’s on top for a moment.

But only a moment; she wriggles down, and very politely doesn’t knee him where it would really hurt. She’s nice like that.

Instead she stretches one hand out for the mace that lies just beyond her, and her fingers catch the handle as he rears up above her. Their shields have been discarded in the scuffle, but her mace is in her hand, and that’s all she needs.

As he brings both hands down she catches the blow across the shaft of her weapon, and that is enough leverage to flip them over again. There is a moment of chaos, and her ears ring as he catches her in the side of the head, and then her mace is pressed against his throat, one arm pinned beneath her knee and the other awkwardly twisted behind his back, and he lets his head thump back in the dirt.

“I yield,” he says. Pike grins and rolls off him, offering him a hand up.

He’s bleeding from a cut on his forehead and his hair is in disarray, his padding torn in places. Pike can’t imagine she looks any better; she can feel a black eye swelling and her ears are still ringing, and there’s blood all down her left sleeve.

She feels  _electric_.

“Do you want me to, uh?” She gestures to the cut on his forehead, and he touches it briefly, then looks down at the blood on his fingertips.

“Oh, uh. Sure. And I can–– Yeah.”

“Okay,” she says, and together they limp towards the steps of one of the buildings lining the training yard. She has patched up her family often enough that a few cuts and bruises are nothing difficult; he tends to her wounds with an efficient precision that speaks to long experience.

Afterwards, neither moves. The sun has dipped beneath the bulk of the mountains, and the orange glow of evening begins to creep towards purple twilight. The air begins to cool, and Pike breathes in the dust-stone-hay smell of the city and feels oddly light.

“That was fun,” she says to the open yard. Kash, halfway through rebraiding his hair, glances up at her.

“Is that what you call it?” he asks, fingers working at his plait. “You fight mean, Trickfoot.” He sounds almost impressed.

“I make use of what I have,” she corrects him, and he snorts.

“Sure, yeah. That.”

“You put up a good fight for a cleric.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, and leaves it at that, and she doesn’t push. Finished with his braid he searches for something to tie it off; Pike hands him his cord. He takes it without a word, but there’s something more gentle to his expression. She watches him work in comfortable silence.

“Thank you,” she says finally. He shrugs.

“Welcome. It was a good fight.”

“No, I mean––” She presses her hands together and breathes deep. “Thank you for taking care of them.”

Kash stills. “Oh.”

“I know what you did, I–– Grog told me, and I haven’t–– I wanted to thank you.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, blunt. He’s studiously not looking at her; the dim light of nightfall casts shadows across his face, and she wonders not for the first time what he has seen to close him off from the living world he so believes in.

“I should have been there,” she tells him. It’s an old guilt, and she has made her peace with it, but it is no less true for the weight it carries. “And I wish I had been, but I–– I’m glad you were, at least. They were lucky.”

He looks at her then, all shadow and heavy lines, and the smallest crook of a smile utterly devoid of humor. His one yellow eye is golden in the fading light of day.

“Not sure most people would call it  _luck_.”

“I do,” she says firmly. She presses a kiss to his cheek and is rewarded when he doesn’t pull away. “Thank you, and I hope you never have to do it again.”

He laughs at that, a short and sharp thing but an honest humor.

“Uh, yeah. Me too. You guys are crazy.”

“Yeah,” Pike agrees with a smile. “That’s us.”

He shakes his head. “Gods know why we stick around. Zee and me must be crazy too.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “You’ll get used to it eventually. We usually grow on people.”

“Like fungus,” he mutters, but she has the distinct feeling he’s not nearly as irritated as he seems. From what the others have said, and from what little of him Pike has seen, this is perilously close to camaraderie. He stretches, rolling out his neck, and stands.

“Well, Trickfoot, it’s been great.”

“Same time next week?” she asks, half a joke, and he eyes her a moment before shrugging.

“Yeah. Alright,” he agrees, slinging his spear over his shoulder and hoisting his shield. He offers the tiniest nods and turns to leave, and is halfway across the yard before he stops and turns to look at her.

“I’m gonna kick your ass,” he calls, and Pike laughs.

“You can try!”

He shakes his head and picks up his pace, disappearing through the open door with a swish of his hair and a final glint of his spearhead, and then Pike is alone in the yard. Twilight stains everything purple as lights begin to flicker to life across town, glittering things like stars across the vale chasing away the budding shadows. Her holy symbol is warm against her chest. It is good to see this city slowly and surely put itself right, dust away the fear and air out the horrors like a thorough spring cleaning. Some wounds linger as some wounds tend to do, but the healing here is a good, strong thing, and the city is well on its way to wholeness again. That makes her feel better, when the guilt of being so very far from her family eats at her. At least she is doing some good. At least she is helping.

Eventually she picks herself up, puts her things away, and takes her leave of the dusty, empty compound. There is work yet to do, and she is ready as always to do it.

Not to mention that, if she hurries, she might yet catch Kash, and she has yet to finish rubbing her victory in his face. An odd foundation for a friendship maybe, but she’s Pike Trickfoot of Vox Machina, best friend of Grog Strongjaw. 

She’ll make it work.


End file.
